


it's only finger-lengths that I see

by sleeplessmiles



Series: carry your world { emmy 'verse } [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3201323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplessmiles/pseuds/sleeplessmiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His brain suddenly makes the necessary links between her tired demeanour, her flour-streaked hair, and the freshly baked cupcakes.</p><p>Oh, crap.</p><p>Jemma’s been stress-baking.</p><p>--</p><p>Fitz is away on his first mission since becoming a father, and neither Jemma nor the baby are getting much sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's only finger-lengths that I see

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenitysea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenitysea/gifts).



> I cannot believe I wrote 4.5k of fluffy baby!fic.

 

Honestly, the most surprising part about Fitz being out in the field again is that it was _him_ , rather than Jemma, to return to active field duty first. 

She can’t deny that she’s been getting a little restless, of course; being stuck in an underground base for an extended period of time certainly has its drawbacks. It’s not as though she hasn’t been working in the lab, either. In fact, she’d returned to her lab duties alarmingly early, and well before the rest of the team were comfortable with the concept.

But just the thought of going back into open combat again… she’s quite content to stay away from gunfire for a little while longer, thank you very much. 

Four days into Fitz’s first mission, however, pacing around her room with a fussy baby at 2 in the morning, Jemma’s starting to wish she’d volunteered for the damn op herself.

She just can’t wrap her head around it. Emmy’s usually a champion sleeper, but Jemma can’t get her to settle for even an hour before she starts fussing again. And her daughter isn’t the only one, either; Jemma doubts she’s gotten more than two hours of continuous sleep since Fitz left. 

She sighs, gently bouncing the baby in her arms. “What are we going to do?” she asks aloud.

Of course, she knows what Fitz would do. The two of them have found a happy middle ground with the night shifts – Fitz, being the night owl that he is, takes care of the sleepless baby if she plays up a few hours after he’s gone to bed, while Jemma, morning person, takes the shifts closest to waking hours. Fitz usually passes the time by messing around with some of his inventions, sketching away and assembling basic parts as Emmy watches on. It tends to soothe the baby back to sleep.

While she appreciates the sentiment, there’s simply no way Jemma is taking her infant daughter anywhere near infectious compounds and uncovered chemicals, no matter how convinced she is that the baby would enjoy watching a good titration.

But.

She stops bouncing Emmy for a moment.

Baking. 

That’s achievable.

She’s always found solace in baking, ever since she first left home. It has the same calming precision as chemistry, requiring considerable skill in the combination of exact quantities in order to create a reaction and produce a result. Doesn’t hurt that said ‘result’ is baked goods, either. It hasn’t really been as much a vice of hers in recent years, but it’s not as though the knowledge and skills ever really go away.

Besides, as much as Emmy might benefit from it, Jemma suspects that she, herself, might just need the routine that much more. There’s been a growing sense of unease in the pit of her stomach for the past couple of days, now. It’d be good to lose herself in something mindless for a while. 

“Perfect,” she declares triumphantly. “You up for a bit of an adventure, Miss Emmy?”

Emmy just blinks back at her mother, sucking one of her hands into her mouth. Jemma gently tugs it out.

“Of course you are. We do love a good adventure, don’t we,” she murmurs, already padding through the base towards the kitchen.

In her sleep-deprived state, Jemma doesn’t really think through the logistics of the whole thing; she forgets to bring something in which to carry Emmy, which means she only really has one hand free. After a great deal of awkward balancing, she manages to maneuvre both the high chair into the kitchenette area, and Emmy into the chair.

She takes a step back, surveying her area. Good. She can do this.

“Right. Now, Imogene,” she begins, taking out the various ingredients. “I understand that you want to get involved, but the thing is, you might get a touch sticky if you do. And then we’d have to go for bathtime, and you really don’t want that, do you now?”

Emmy bounces in her seat a little, waving her arms. Jemma smiles.

“I knew you’d understand.”

It doesn’t take long for Jemma to fall back into the rhythm of baking. Measure, combine, oven, clean, repeat. Clean motions, clean workspace.

Does she get carried away with quantity? It’s possible. She takes a quick glance around after quite some time has passed, noting the cupcakes piled up on every free surface.

Probable. It’s probable.

(At some point, she wonders if it’s perhaps more soothing to her than it is to her sleepless child, but then she looks across at Emmy, whose wide eyes are tracking Jemma’s every movement, and she thinks they’re probably in the same boat.) 

“Don’t think I can’t see where you’re looking,” she gently scolds after a long while, taking another batch of cupcakes out of the oven. “You want to get in here and make a mess, don’t you? It’s all due to your genetics, you see.”

Emmy gurgles.

“Yes, it _is_ in your DNA, isn’t it? All those mess-making genes from your father, I’m afraid. You can’t help yourself.”

But oh, that’s a mistake, because now she’s thinking about Fitz again. She thinks of the time Fitz discovered her penchant for baking, back at the Academy. ‘Stress-baking,’ he’d dubbed it, when he’d entered her dorm to find her surrounded by baked goods at 3AM and still going strong. After that, he usually tried to head it off before she got in too deep, but he’d never really taken much issue with polishing off the results of her efforts.

“You’re usually doing this with your Daddy, aren’t you?” Jemma says on a sigh, more statement than question. She runs a gentle hand over Emmy’s head, smoothing down the wispy blonde hair.

_Please be alright, Fitz._

The sound of a throat softly clearing draws her attention away from her daughter – who now, impressively, has put her entire fist in her mouth.

(God. Just like her father, the poor thing.)

May’s standing in the doorway.

Jemma startles at the sight, looking around for a clock. Is it that time already?

5AM.

_Shit._

“Doing a bit of baking?” the woman asks, a bemused expression on her face.

“Er.” Stupidly, Jemma considers lying for a fleeting moment, before taking a quick look around and remembering she’s quite literally surrounded by a kitchen full of cakes. “Yes, actually.”

May slowly wanders into the kitchen, inspecting a batch of freshly frosted cupcakes. Jemma hastens to explain. 

“She usually… When she can’t sleep, Fitz tinkers with his gadgets in front of her. It calms her.”

May nods knowingly. She’s probably witnessed it herself, Jemma realises belatedly.

_Gosh, I really need some sleep._

“And I was hardly going to take her to the lab and mix chemicals wearing a Baby Bjorn, so I figured baking would have to suffice.”

Emmy has been staring up at May, eyes wide and serious, since the woman entered the room (now _that_ , she gets from her mother, Jemma decides). May approaches the baby now, gently running a single finger down Emmy’s cheek. Emmy continues staring, transfixed. 

Then, May turns her too-perceptive gaze onto Jemma.

“Worried about him?”

Of course she’d see right to the heart of it within minutes. Jemma feels her body sag in defeat.

“It’s silly, I know.” 

“He’ll be fine,” May states firmly, sounding less like she’s trying to convince Jemma and more like she’s just musing aloud. It’s only the slightest of distinctions, but Jemma appreciates it immensely. 

Not that it assuages the thrumming feeling of unease at the back of her mind.

She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Logically, I’m aware of that.”

Emmy has latched onto May’s pinkie finger with one of her little hands, seeming distressed at the notion of the older woman moving away. Ever patient, May leans a hip against the bench, holding her hand out for the baby while her calm gaze remains on Jemma.

“Everyone on that team will do whatever they can do make sure Fitz gets home safely.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she confides quietly.

The look on May’s face is one of complete incredulity, and Jemma knows she’s thinking of all the dumb things Jemma’s done to save her teammates throughout her SHIELD career.

(She and May have had some… _interesting_ discussions about self-preservation in recent years. Usually along the lines of ‘you need to find some.’)

“That’s not the same thing,” Jemma protests weakly.

May tries to gently disentangle Emmy’s fingers with her other hand, only to have Emmy grab onto another finger. She sighs, just barely, before leveling Jemma with a serious look.

“It’s part of the job.”

Jemma sighs.

“Yes.” And it is. She knows it is. She also knows it’s an awful lot more than that.

Some days, she just _really_ hates this job.

May stands there in silence for a few moments longer, studying Jemma carefully. She seems to make some sort of decision before speaking.

“Trip said last night that he thought they’d be back today.”

Jemma immediately perks up. ‘Really?’

“No guarantee, though,” May warns, probably somewhat alarmed at the sudden, unadulterated glee on Jemma’s face. She can’t hold it back, though. Couldn’t if she tried.

“But Trip’s usually bang on about this sort of thing,” she insists excitedly, grinning. She runs the back of one hand across her forehead, tucking her hair behind her ear again, before realising her hand is covered in cake mix and frosting.

Oh, gosh. How much frosting is on her face? Forget Fitz’s genes; she’s the one who’s a bloody mess.

She glances across at her mentor, sure she’s about to get the Melinda May equivalent of an earful about her dubious coping mechanisms, but May surprises her with a sympathetic look.

(Jemma doesn’t know how it keeps surprising her, but here they are.)

“Need help?” the woman ventures. Jemma almost laughs, because she’s sure she looks the very picture of a woman in need of help.

But she gives her an out anyway. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’d much rather begin your Tai Chi at this hour, and I wouldn’t – ”

“ – Jemma,” she cuts in firmly.

Jemma bites her lip, deliberating.

“I _am_ a touch behind on the frosting,” she relents. 

The older woman says nothing in response, simply holds out a hand for the bowl of frosting resting by Jemma’s elbow. With a small grin, she passes it over, and the two of them get to work.

They continue like that for a while, elbow-to-elbow in contented silence. Emmy fusses every so often, but it’s always May to calm her, murmuring Mandarin platitudes under her breath. At some point, May stops to make them both tea, then simply resumes the cupcake decorating, unasked.

She still hasn’t questioned the obsessive baking at all. Jemma’s infinitely grateful.

Seriously, though. She feels like she could cry. 

_Bloody hormones._

“It’s really nice to have you here,” Jemma blurts, cringing immediately. Oh, God. What happened to her mental filters? She’s sure she used to have mental filters.

May looks to be holding back a smile, at any rate.

“I mean,” Jemma elaborates, sure she’s blushing, “I’ve been talking poor Emmy’s ears off all night, I’m sure she’s rather sick of my voice by this point.”

“She seems to appreciate it,” the older woman replies mercifully after a few moments, looking over at the baby.

“We’re just lucky she’s such a happy baby,” Jemma agrees absently. She considers her daughter for a moment. “Happier when Fitz is here, though.”

May looks at Jemma slyly. “Seems she’s not the only one.”

In lieu of any sort of response (because what’s she going to do, at this point? Deny it?), Jemma just huffs out an embarrassed laugh, picking up another cupcake.

Around half an hour later, Lance shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing at his eyes and mumbling something that might have sounded like ‘morning,’ if one was willing to extrapolate. He’s halfway through pulling a coffee mug down from the cupboard when he seems to register the sight before him.

Namely, the mountains of baked goods.

“Is that…?” He gapes.

Jemma rolls her eyes. 

“Jem, you know you're like a little sister to me, but that’s literally the only reason I’m not kissing you on the mouth right now.”

She looks at him in utter disbelief.

“Really. That’s the only reason.” 

He regards her very seriously. “You made _cupcakes_.” 

“Ugh. Just shut your mouth and grab one.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lance doesn’t need to be told twice, instantly grabbing a cupcake in each hand and shoving the entire thing into his mouth.

Ugh.

“So,” he begins a few moments later, mouth full of cake. Jemma’s got half a mind to cover Emmy’s eyes – not because he’s being a terrible influence, exactly, but because no child should have to be subjected to this sight. “What’s the deal here? Holding a vigil while we wait for our brave warriors to return?”

The expression May levels him with is one of deep repulsion. Jemma scrunches up her nose.

“I’d be offended at the implication that we’re helpless damsels if you weren’t busy implying that you’re one yourself.”

He shrugs, munching away happily. Jemma quirks a brow.

“Bobbi’s your brave warrior, then?” she asks innocently. The lewd smile that spreads slowly across his face causes her to change her tune pretty quickly, though. She slaps at him with a scoff.

“Ugh. Disgusting.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were thinking it! In front of my infant child, no less. Have you no shame?”

“Oh, cheer up, princess.” He takes a bite of another cupcake before bending down to address Emmy. “Mummy’s being a bit of a grump today, isn’t she?”

It’s got nothing to do with what he’s saying, and everything to do with the fact that his face is suddenly in her field of vision, but Emmy chooses that exact moment to swat at Lance’s cheek. He whips his head back, adopting a hurt expression.

Jemma laughs, reaching to lift Emmy out of her chair.

“Excuse you!” he exclaims.

Emmy just babbles happily.

“Oh, aren’t you a clever girl?” Jemma coos, grinning beatifically across at Lance.

“She’s got good taste,” May drawls, deadpan as ever.

“Alright, alright. Very funny, ladies.” He points at Emmy. “You, c’mere.”

Jemma tightens her grip on her daughter slightly – _protectively,_ of all the ridiculous impulses. “No, she’s mad at you now.”

“Jemma.” 

“No, really, look at her.”

Emmy smiles, clapping her hands.

 _Traitor_.

Lance just stares at Jemma, as though he’s only now registering the fact that she’s in her pajamas, barefooted, and wearing her hair in a messy bun. He seems stunned. “How are you even awake right now?”

“Willpower,” she hisses back.

Lance opens his mouth to retort, but May interjects before it can escalate.

“Come do some meditation,” she says, wiping her hands on a cloth and looking at Jemma pointedly. ‘You might be able to sleep afterwards.’ 

Jemma sighs. No, she’s right. It’s probably worth a shot. Reluctantly, she relinquishes her hold on Emmy; Lance grabs her and immediately raises the child up to his eye level. 

“I forgive you, Emmylou,” he tells her seriously.

And that’s when it hits Jemma, in that absurd moment with Lance Hunter pulling stupid faces at her baby daughter. Emmy has these people, too. They’re all sacrificial idiots, and they’d all jump on a grenade if it meant they’d save even a single other person, but there will always be someone looking out for her.

No matter what happens, Emmy will have her people. And it’s not much – not by a long shot, not when they’ve been forced into hiding the way they have – but it sure is something. 

Jemma feels that tight knot of anxiety in her chest unfurl just a little.

“Simmons,” May calls out then, snapping her out of her reverie.

“Coming!” she replies absently. She hesitates at the door though, turns around.

“Lance, you know that she’s a baby. You can’t feed her cupcakes.”

He looks at her incredulously, another cupcake already raised to his lips as Emmy grabs for it. “You thought I was gonna share?”

She just makes a frustrated whining sound, hurrying out before she can do anything stupid. Like forcibly remove her daughter from Lance’s clutches.

“Come on!” he yells after her. “You know me better than that!”

 

-

-

 

Leopold Fitz feels a little like he’s going to burst out of his skin. No, scrap that – a lot. A lot like he’s going to burst out of his skin.

It’s not that he wasn’t ready to go back out into the field, because he was. Is. He’s more than ready.

He’s just also more than ready to come back and see them again afterwards, too.

The rest of the team knows it. Trip has been grinning at him significantly for the past few hours, giving him a thumbs up whenever they make eye contact. Bobbi keeps walking past and elbowing him with a lascivious wink. Skye’s been the worst of everyone, crowing about how ‘Leopold’s gonna get _laid_ ’ for at least two whole days. 

Honestly, by the time they actually arrive back at the base, Fitz is equal parts excited to see his little family, and elated to get the hell away from the team for a few hours. The ramp hasn’t even fully lowered before he leaps to the ground, taking large strides towards the living quarters.

“Watch out! Man on a mission!” Trip calls out after him.

“Hey, not anymore,” Bobbi chips in. “He’s off the clock.”

“Trading business for pleasure,” Trip agrees. “Nice.”

Skye’s just making obscene wolf-whistling sounds.

“I’m moving to a far away land,” Fitz declares loudly, not turning around, “and none of you will ever be able to taunt me like this again.”

They all erupt into exaggeratedly scared sounds at his hollow threat.

Bloody idiots, the lot of them. 

But he can’t even bring himself to slow down, let alone turn around to send them a withering glare. He’s not actually sure his face is capable of contorting into a glare right now, not when he’s struggling to hold back his stupid grin.

He’s _home_.

In his haste to get to his room, he speeds blindly round a corner and only narrowly avoids running into May, who’s just emerged from the rec room. He veers out of the way at the last possible moment, staggering to an ungraceful stop against the wall.

“Hi,” he says, breathless. She raises an eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed, but her mouth is curved into the smallest of smiles as well so he’s pretty sure he’s in the clear.

“In there,” is all she offers by way of greeting, squeezing his arm as she walks past. He swallows, grateful, before quietly opening the door. 

In his life, Leopold Fitz has had his breath taken away from him in the cruelest of ways, so he’s not a huge fan of the term ‘breathtaking.’ For the sight that meets him in the rec room, however, he just might have to make an exception.

Jemma is completely conked out at the table, head pillowed on her arms as she snores softly. There’s some sort of powder streaked through the hair knotted messily on top of her head – flour, he thinks, because she wouldn’t be careless enough to rub some other compound in her hair, of all things. Next to her, propped up in a high chair, their baby daughter makes quiet sounds to herself, looking around the room and bouncing her arms a little.

His throat feels impossibly tight.

Fitz steps into the room as soundlessly as he can manage, trying not to disturb Jemma, but Emmy looks over and notices him as he approaches anyway. She babbles excitedly, chubby little arms waving and fingers grabbing for him, and oh, God, he’s actually going to cry.

“Hey, baby girl,” he whispers, smiling broadly as he lifts her out of the chair and up to his face. Emmy puts her hands on his cheeks, mouth parted in a happy expression. He plants kisses on her face, delighting in the soft giggling noises she emits.

But the nonsensical sounds spilling from his daughter’s mouth must be louder than he’d thought, because next thing he knows, Jemma’s stirring. She lifts her head from the table, blinking slowly a few times before her eyes focus.

“Fitz,” she breathes happily, a sleepy smile crawling onto her lips.

“Hey,” he replies, voice cracking just a little, and then she’s up on her feet, reaching for him, and he’s barely got time to move Emmy to the crook of one arm before Jemma’s wrapping him up in the tight hug he’s been missing from the moment he left. Awkwardness be damned.

(He feels like his lungs are getting air for the first time in _days_.)

“Welcome home,” she whispers into his neck, pulling back to regard him fondly. He runs his free hand along her face, as gently as he dares, tucking the errant tendrils there behind her ear. Definitely flour, Fitz decides.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. Her lazy smile grows wider at that, eyes sparkling, and she leans her face into his hand a little. Sleepy, affectionate Jemma is one of his favourite Jemmas. He can’t stop grinning.

“Well, you look like rubbish, for the record.”

His grin only widens. 

“Oh, is that so?”

“Mmm. Bit smelly, too.”

“Well,” he sighs, trying for disaffected. “You know how fieldwork is. Changes a man.”

“Oh, shush,” she laughs, reaching up for his face at long last. He snakes his free hand around her waist, pulling her in close, and meets her lips for a slow, languid kiss. 

(Coulson can take his field duty and shove it, Fitz decides distantly. He’s not giving this up again.

Then he decides Coulson has no business being on his mind while Jemma’s tongue is in his mouth, so he tunes out of his thoughts for a little while.)

Jemma stays close when they finally break for air, resting her forehead briefly on his.

“I missed you,” she murmurs, clumsily burying her face in his neck.

“You have no idea,” he admits, voice gravelly with emotion. Her hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers digging in just slightly.

“Oh, and I lied. Just before. Did you notice?”

He plants a kiss on the top of her head, glancing down to make sure Emmy’s still okay (she’s gazing drowsily up at her parents, eyelids drooping).

“When?”

“When I said you look like rubbish.”

Fitz smiles. “I did not notice, no.”

“Mmm. It’s because I’m a really great liar.”

He huffs a laugh.

“Seriously. I’m fantastic.” 

“Jemma.”

She lifts her head to meet his eyes. “You look great.”

“How much sleep have you had?” he asks. _How little sleep_ , he mentally rephrases.

“I mean it,” she insists seriously ( _dodging the question,_ Fitz notes, but he’ll leave it for now). “Combat gear, Fitz. The ruffled hair, too. Very becoming.”

He smirks. “Becoming, hey?”

She narrows her eyes playfully, immediately catching on.

“I know you’re trying to provoke me into calling you sexy again, and I won’t cave.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I’d settle for rugged, really.”

“Oh, would you now.”

“Your rugged, sexy husband.”

She scoffs, scrunching up her nose. “I wasn’t lying about the smell, you know.”

“Nah, you love it,” he shoots back, rubbing his jaw along her neck. She squeaks in mock protest, but there isn’t any real fight in it.

“Watch out for Emmy, you buffoon.”

“Oh, now, that’s rich. You’re the one who couldn’t keep her hands off me!”

“Oh, shut – ”

“Jemma Simmons, you are an actual goddess!” Skye bellows suddenly from the other room, following up her outburst with an indelicate groan of satisfaction. Fitz freezes, blinks, before looking a question at his wife. 

“Not that I disagree, but…?”

“Cupcakes,” is all she offers by way of explanation.

Well. That explains the flour, then.

Wait.

 _Cupcakes_. 

He perks up.

“Ooh, did you make – ”

“ – marbled vanilla ones? Of course.”

“With the – ”

“ – the orange-spiced frosting?” She quirks a knowing eyebrow, face smug. He groans appreciatively, pulling her in closer to his side.

“I’m very jealous of your husband. He’s a lucky, lucky man.”

“He best not forget it, either,” she hums, but even as she says it, her eyelids are fluttering a little.

Christ, she looks _exhausted_.

His brain suddenly makes the necessary links between her tired demeanour, her flour-streaked hair, and the freshly baked cupcakes.

Oh, crap.

Jemma’s been stress-baking.

He hasn’t really seen it happen since they were back at the Academy – their strategies for coping with stress have had to evolve drastically over the past few years – and he’d honestly believed she’d gotten most of it out of her system. A relapse is definitely worrying. 

But then, Fitz had been sleeping terribly since he'd left, too. And nestled in his other arm, Emmy’s nodded off already.

Seems no one’s really been sleeping very well lately.

“Later, though. For the cupcakes,” he decides aloud.

“Mmm, later,” Jemma parrots.

“Sleeptime now.” 

“Sleep now,” she sighs in agreement, settling against his neck once more, and if he weren’t already convinced, the warm, sleepy weight of his wife on one shoulder and his sleeping baby daughter snuggled in his other arm would be enough to sell it.

With a little rearranging and a whole lot of luck, he manages to steer Jemma back to their room without waking Emmy. He carefully lowers the baby into her crib, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

“I’ll be here in the morning,” Fitz whispers to his sleeping daughter. Jemma’s smiling into his neck now, lips brushing against his pulse. “Daddy’s gonna be right here.” 

“Night, love,” Jemma murmurs, reaching out a hand to brush against Emmy. The two of them stand there a while, simply watching the baby sleep, before Fitz remembers that his mission isn’t technically over.

Not until the exhausted woman leaning practically all of her weight onto him gets some actual rest.

“Bedtime for you,” he insists, leading her over to their bed. When she lets go of him and simply sits down on the edge of the bed, though, he looks at her quizzically.

She nods at his torso, where he’s still clad in full tactical gear, giving him a slow once over and a lazy, mischievous smile. “Go on, then.”

 _Christ, Jem_.

But regardless of the potential, all he can focus on are the dark smudges under her eyes, the slight delay to each blink. So he makes quick work of the tactical gear, shucking his clothes down to his boxers in very little time at all. He feels the slightest twinge of regret at the disappointed pout on Jemma’s face, but as soon as he climbs under the covers, she immediately curls up against his chest, intertwining their legs and pulling him close.

“I _really_ missed you,” she mumbles, voice thick with emotion. He smiles.

“I was the same. I reckon I’m unbearable without you, now.” 

She snorts inelegantly. “‘Now?’”

“ _Ouch_. Harsh.”

“Mmm. But true.”

“Yeah, probably,” he agrees, grinning stupidly.

“But we can discuss it further in the morning.”

“An excellent idea. Table it for tomorrow. With the cupcakes.”

“And the sex,” Jemma adds.

Hey, now.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got to welcome you back properly, don’t I?” To accentuate her point, she reaches down and lazily squeezes his ass. He jumps, unconsciously pulling her closer.

“‘Sides,” Jemma sighs, eyes already shut, “Skye’ll steal Emmy for most of tomorrow, I’d imagine.”

“Mmm.” He rubs a hand idly down the length of her spine, considering. “Sure you want to wait til morning though?”

She tries to groan in frustration by way of response, she really does, but she’s either too amused or too tired to land it.

Probably both.

“ _Sleep_ ,” she insists on a breathy laugh.

So he does. With his wife curled up against his side, and his baby daughter slumbering in her crib only metres away, Leopold Fitz finally sleeps.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> A few things:
> 
> \- title's from 'Set the Fire to the Third Bar' by Snow Patrol
> 
> \- I know very little about cupcakes, so I have no idea if what I described is even remotely edible/existent (SORRY)
> 
> \- you can find my on tumblr at 'imperfectlychaotic,' where I sometimes post headcanons/drabbles from this series
> 
> \- this is dedicated to Ali, who is the greatest.


End file.
